


Blood isn't the last thing I will carve out of you

by Original_Cypher



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, derek has feels, pre slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2018-01-01 02:03:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1039026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Original_Cypher/pseuds/Original_Cypher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Despite the fact that Derek keeps his jaw stubbornly clenched shut, his face twists and a raw, throaty sound whooshes out of him. </i>“Stiles,” <i>he grits out, fist falling heavily on the table.</i></p><p>Blood is one of Derek's bodily fluid Stiles is highly familiar with. They both wish he wasn't.</p><p>¤¤¤¤</p><p>Some of the dialogue is ripped off a Dean scene in SPN 2.14 Born Under a Bad Sign. I'm shameless. I know.<br/>No spoilers for SPN tho.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood isn't the last thing I will carve out of you

Despite the fact that Derek keeps his jaw stubbornly clenched shut, his face twists and a raw, throaty sound whooshes out of him. “ _Stiles_ ,” he grits out, fist falling heavily on the table. The armrest of his chair is cracking under the vicious grip of his other hand.

“Don't be a baby,” Stiles chastises. His voice is cracked, shaky. His touch is gentle, soothing. Well, except-...

Another twist wrenches a grunt out of the wolf. He gasps, turning away, trying to reign a snarl in.

“I got it! Got it,” Stiles whispers in a rush. A new wave pain shoots through him suddenly, so intense that Derek's vision whites out for an instant. Then he hears the soft _tink_ of the bullet finally falling where it belongs – outside of his flesh. “There.” Stiles whispers. Derek can expend his lungs fully again, he takes a few deep, slow breaths to savor. “That was the last of it, right?”

Derek nods, even though there is no way Stiles hasn't kept track. He can feel his clavicle mending itself now that the bullet is gone. He risks a look at his shoulder. The flesh is mangled. “You're a butcher.”

Stiles huffs at him and wipes the butterfly knife on his jeans before discarding it on the table. “ _You're welcome_.”

It's a game they play. They pretend Stiles wasn't just digging bullets out of the alpha because they'd been in mortal danger again. They don't acknowledge the fact that _Stiles_ could have been shot, and it would have been a whole different level of painful and life-threatening. They don't say how thankful or scared for the other they are. Quips in the face of danger and trauma is their way to live. Derek is tired of it. Stiles deserves better. His hand shoots out and clasps around the human's wrist, keeping him close before he fully turns away. “Thank you.” He meets Stiles eye to make sure the correct message is conveyed. This isn't him rising to the banter. This is him grateful for help. For companionship. For Stiles, who saved him from being shot in the face earlier, and just kept him from having to go through the excruciating wait until the bullets fell out on their own. A finger grazes the inside of Derek's forearm, and Stiles shrugs with a small smile. And it weighs on Derek a little bit more, this reflex to play it off as no big deal. “You shouldn't have to...”

“It's my job.”

The alpha grits his teeth. The word angers him. Yes, Stiles had naturally fell in Derek's back, by the alpha's side. He had proven great, surprising everyone but Derek. Yet, he always hated the sense of duty and guilt that always brought Stiles back. “You didn't choose it.”

Stiles' wrist slips out of his grasp when the human reaches up, cupping both hands around Derek's jaw so he can make him look up. Derek is still sitting down, he has to crane his neck back to meet Stiles' eyes.

“Yes, I did, Derek.” Stiles says, tone grave. Derek swallows uncomfortably, but doesn't move. “Yes. I did.” Silence hangs heavy. This isn't exactly the reassurance Derek could have hoped for. He watches fire dances in Stiles' whiskey-colored irises. “I'm not here just because you couldn't tie your shoes without me, Hale. I'm here because this is my place. This is where I _belong_.”

There isn't a hint of a lie in Stiles' words, in his posture or his heartbeat.

The emotion backhands Derek across the face. He's not a chore. Stiles' role isn't a burden. He'd realized, in time, that it was who Stiles was, but never how deliberate it was.

So this is what it feels like to be chosen? To have people deciding to stand by you of their own volition?

God, I am _so_ in love with you.

The thought is fleeting **,** the stab of it lasting as long as it would take to voice it, but it's no less violent than the realization that just dawned on him. His feelings for Stiles, as complicated and terrifyingly _simple_ as they are, are nothing new. Not even to him, the king of denial.

But Stiles is staring down at him with wide eyes, and his heart just gave a pang before starting double time. _Shit_.

He must have spoken the words.

He looks down, lets his hands fall away. He doesn't remember reaching up to hook a finger in the pocket of Stiles' cargo pants. His other hand uncurls from Stiles' forearm. But when he goes to lean away, Stiles tightens his hold. Oh, it would be easy to break, but Derek can't find the strength to force himself out of Stiles' touch. He lets the human tug his face back up and meets his gaze meekly. “You, uh...” Stiles starts, clears his throat. “You clearly didn't mean to say that out loud...”

“No,” Derek croaks. He blames the rawness on the awkward position of his throat. See? Denial. Kingdom.

“Did you mean it?”

Derek closes his eyes. It's a mistake. It amplifies his focus on the thrum of Stiles' heartbeat in the tip of his fingers, right up against Derek's neck. Magnifies the softness of the touch, the urge Derek has to turn his face into one of Stiles' palms and breathe. And whine. He forces himself to look up again. He owes it to Stiles to meet his gaze when he answers, “Yes.”

Stiles' heart rabbited when Derek said he loved him, but this time it doesn't. It's not really a confirmation, he believed it the first time. It was a test. A show of trust. Derek thinks he passed, until Stiles lets go.

The hold loosens, Stiles' thumbs stroke absently at his cheekbones, and falls away. His eyes travel to Derek's shoulder. “Damn,” he whispers, reaching out. There's dried blood caked on the back of his hand, under his fingernails. “I will never cease to be jealous of and amazed by your superhealing.” He catches sight of his own hand and spreads his fingers in the air. “I should clean this up,” he decides and grabs his 'surgery' tools. “And you, _definitely_ need a shower.” Because this isn't like in the movies. When a wound heals, the blood doesn't disappear. The clothes don't magically stitch themselves back up. The dirt doesn't magically move to 'safe' places so you're still pretty.

Derek forgets to wash himself in the shower. Halfway through toweling himself dry, he realizes he stood under the spray, stunned stupid, for a good ten minutes, until he stepped out robotically. His mind is reeling. With _Stiles_.

Naturally.

He's never been good with feelings. And situations. But he's pretty sure something should have happened. _Something_. Anything.

“Everything okay?” Stiles asks when Derek reapers. He's got a sponge in his hand, the table and the armchair are clean. “Not dizzy?”

Derek shakes his head. There was some consequential blood loss, but he doesn't feel weaker for it. Just tired. That's also probably due to the fact that it's three in the morning.

“You sure? Maybe you should eat something before you crash.”

“Stiles. I'm good,” Derek insists. “You took good care of me.” Somehow, the human never seems convinced that Derek should be trusted to take care of his basic vital needs. The werewolf has found that, rather than arguing back, reminding Stiles of his watchful eye works best.

The human nods, dunks the sponge back into the sink and turns off the light to the kitchen. “I think if I stay up any longer, I might just fall over.” Stiles walks through the room, eyes zigzagging over Derek's chest, stopping where bullet wounds were minutes ago. “Good night.”

Derek stops him before he gets to his room. _Room_. It's more of a squat, really. A number of them crash there on occasion. Derek feels bad that he's dragging his pack down to his level of housing conditions.

He doesn't have to touch him. He just takes a step, and the other stops. “Stiles.”

“Der...” Stiles is holding up a stalling hand. Once he sees that Derek is waiting, he meets his eyes. “I'm not going to do anything about it,” he says quietly. Derek isn't sure what that means. Stiles' eyebrows twitch like he's looking for the right words. “I know how deeply... damaged you have been." Stiles' hand rests over Derek's chest, as if feeling the scars left by betrayal, loss and guilt. “by this very feeling.” His lips are thin, drawn tight. It feels like Stiles is swearing, _on Derek's heart_ , not to use it against him. "And because I feel exactly the same... I won't do anything about it." Derek frowns, confused. He knows his heart just started racing under Stiles' palm. Golden orbs look up, trapping his gaze. “You will,” Stiles states, certain. “ _If_ and when you're... a hundred percent sure."

Nothing else comes, so he has to ask. "Sure of what?"

"Of me." Stiles shrugs. "Of yourself." He licks his lips. "Sure that there won't be a single second during which you'll regret it," he says, then pats Derek's chest once and pulls away. "Like I said, I _chose_ this. To be here. By your side. You can't lose me." Stiles offers a small smile "But you have to know that yourself. You can't just take my word for it."

 _Now_ , he's dizzy. Everything Stiles is saying. He can't believe it. And that's precisely Stiles' point. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah.” Stiles holds his gaze for a few seconds, searching, then his lips crook in a faint, tired smiles and he ducks into the 'guest room'. Derek leans a shoulder on the door frame. “Hey. Stiles,” he says, soft and warm.

“Yeah?”

“You're not a butcher.” You're the one that heals me.

Stiles' eyes are smiling, radiating pride, power and fondness. “I'm an emissary.”


End file.
